The Pain that Stays
by Caco823
Summary: It shattered his soul, it wrenched him apart. The pain was too much, and he could bare it no longer. He sought for the way out of his grief, and yet...and yet...!
1. Numb

Warning:

This is my first Hikago fic, so ppl, be nice.

This is going to be a really angst. Hikaru's going to be a bit OOC here, with being all masochistic and stuff.

Rated for attempt suicide.

Hope you guys like it!

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Disclaimer: I don't own Hikago, though I sincerely wish I did.

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**Chapter 1 - Numb**

It gnawed at him at him from the depths of his heart.

It tore him apart from the pits of his mind.

The sourness and anguish screamed at him, deafened him, dragging him into the nadir of his own consciousness.

It pierced him, a knife in the chest, but he let the blade thrust in further, allowed himself bleed.

_Because I deserved it._

The lights flickered out; he was abandoned in the utter darkness, and yet he didn't stop the darkness from consuming him, swallowing him whole.

_Because I was wrong._

The agony scarred him, drawing blood from his flesh, his bone. It stabbed at him repeatedly, until he was reduced to the state in which he could no longer stand up again.

But he never resisted. He permitted the pain to dominate him, his actions, his thoughts. He tolerated the torment in which he had given himself.

He put himself in chains, eternally leashed to the horrible truth that he had driven his best friend away.

_I'm sorry…_

It was like a ravenous dog, tearing away his insides bit by bit with its sharp fangs, a slow and painful torture that would probably last forever.

…_I'm sorry!_

He cried. He was not ashamed to admit it. He let the tears did whatever he heart could not. It was his only way of releasing his grief.

_Come back!_

He wondered if he was losing his mind.

SAI…!

* * *

A light breeze twirled amidst the falling sakura petals, a ballet in the sea of delicate pink snowflakes, leaving behind a silvery trail of tranquility and coolness. The cherry blossoms were exceptionally beautiful today, yet even the loveliness and magnificence of the world could not titivate the dull and weary green orbs in which it was reflected upon.

It was with such heaviness in the heart and lassitude in the mind that Shindou Hikaru reached forward and shut the windows of his room, pressing down on the handle with his weight as he secured the locks. He was most surprised to find his hands shaking, whether from fear or uncertainty, he did not know. After all the time he had spent battling with his inner self, arguing back and forth before finally reaching the fateful decision, he had expected himself to be determined enough to finish this without a doubt.

The sharp edge of the window frame grazed the back of his hand, resulting to a glaring white scar thin as thread. He paid it no mind, though. It did hurt, of course, a twinge on the skin…

…or did it? He was numb to pain, after all. He couldn't feel it anymore. He was no longer sensitive to any hurting, both physical and spiritual. He could no longer understand the anguish that his mother was suffering from when he had refused to talk to her. He could no longer comprehend the sting and the soft cry that escaped Akari's lips when she had pricked herself with a sharp needle during the home economics lesson.

He had turned himself off, shut himself away from the human race, so no more would hurt him, so none could ever hurt him again…

To him, there were no words to describe the utter insignificance of a little scratch at the back of his hand.

Taking in just once more the sakura trees that lined the street outside the glass, he pulled down his curtains, shutting out the world, shutting out everything.

Shutting out the beauty that he would have to leave behind.

He turned to the components of his that were scattered messily on the wooden floor. They seemed to sneer at him, mocking his hesitation and nervousness, taking advantage of his weakness. He was slightly conscious of his sweating palm and his deep breaths his lungs were drawing into his body. Perhaps it was absurd to suggest that duct tape, barbecue charcoal, a grill and a chimney starter could possibly cause a person to feel insecure, but here he was, his doubt rising by second.

Resentment swept across him when he remembered that Sai had always been the one to wash away his reservations; He was his one and only support.

Sai…for a split of a second, the image of his lost friend flashed in front of his eyes. Hikaru tensed, tasted the sourness on his tongue, but the compassionate violet eyes and calm, comforting smile went as sudden as it had come, faded as if it had never been there.

He was alone.

All alone.

Always has been, always will be.

_Not anymore._

A small smile tugged at the edges of his mouth.

Fist clenched, a sudden wave a determination, the boy stepped towards the fate he had prepared for himself.

_I'm coming.

* * *

_

___Shindou_ Mitsuko was at a loss of what to do.

She wondered, hands gripping the sides of her apron so tightly that her fingernails dug into her flesh despite the cloth, whether she knew her son anymore.

Hikaru was no longer the boy she had once known. His change was so abrupt that, so sudden, that none was ready for it. It was like watching a movie in the cinema, when you weren't allowed to replay a certain scene because you failed to catch what the actor had said, no matter how important the words contribute to the plot.

If you missed it, you missed it.

And Mitsuko blamed herself for letting such a vital clue to elude from her grasp.

She deduced that, from the confusion and agony that clouded her son's eyes, Hikaru had lost his cheeky, happy-go-lucky self in a tragedy. Though she had no evidence to prove her point, her motherly instincts told her as much, and only this much she was certain of.

Yet she was only sorry that it was a tragedy that even she knew nothing about.

Mitsuko remembered the time when she never worried about Hikaru's happiness; the boy was simply made of bliss and delight. Radiance had literally poured off him as Mitsuko watched her son, with those warm, loving eyes that all loving mothers have, laugh, play, and run towards a brilliant future.

She had named him Hikaru for his brilliant burning flame that was mirrored in his bright green eyes the moment he was born. Mitsuko watched him grow, watched the fire in his heart burn brighter and more vivid. By four years-old, Hikaru's soul was shining like the stars in the sky. By ten, he was the sun.

Hikaru never cried. Never. _Weak_, he called it, _girly_, and he was amazingly stubborn about it. He never shed a tear when he scraped his knee. He never let the salty wetness escape his eyes all those times he was bullied and beaten up by the bigger guys at school. He refused to let the moistness dominate his vision even when his favourite Aunt Sonoko died in the car accident a few years back.

And yet, just a few nights ago, Mitsuko could have sworn that she heard Hikaru's sobs muffled against his pillow.

Sure enough, when she went to dust Hikaru's room the next morning after the boy had left for school, the pillow was wet.

The heart-wrenching cries of her son were forever raw and painful to her ears.

To be completely honest with herself, Mitsuko was terrified in her son's change of behavior. She feared the lack of enthusiasm and intensity of the light in Hikaru's once shining eyes and that missing passion that the boy once had for life. She missed fervently his smiles and laughter that was once heard almost every day in the past.

And Mitsuko blamed go for it.

It did not take a genius to recognize that the miraculous transformation that had taken place in Hikaru had started ever since he had taken up go. She was shocked by her son's obsession towards the game, when Hikaru had been labeled a lively soccer geek for the many previous years.

At first Mitsuko did not think too much of it, believing it to be the work of her go-passionate father-in-law, Heihachi. Her concerns grew as time passed, though, when Hikaru asked to join the insei program, and eventually the pro exam. True, while go had brought her boy the peace of the mind and modeled Hikaru into a slightly quieter child who could actually sit still for once, Mitsuko couldn't help but notice that it simultaneously (and very much sneakily) took away the merriness and innocence that made up the Hikaru she knew.

She had every reason to be worried about the impacts of go on Hikaru, now that he was forfeiting his matches.

Mitsuko grieved for her son, whose pain, she somehow knew, was far greater than hers.

A glance at the clock told her that it was teatime. She carried her promised tray of steaming tea and cookies upstairs to Hikaru's room – a usual routine.

Sometimes, Mitsuko was aware with much bitterness and misery, she just didn't know if she could face her son anymore.

She knocked on Hikaru's door twice, and waited for a response. She dared not enter without his permission, mostly because she felt as if she was invading his privacy. Mitsuko was conscious of the veil that had separated her from Hikaru ever since he started shutting himself in his room whenever he got back from school. He did not even eat dinner at the table anymore, but carried it into his room each night and leaving it outside his door when he was finished.

Hikaru has become a stranger in the house.

Patiently, Mitsuko willed his answer of "come in!", just to hear his voice, to assure her of his existence.

But it never came.

Apprehension rising by the second, Mitsuko put the tray aside and knocked louder on her son's bedroom door.

"Hikaru? Hikaru? I've brought your tea."

Within moments, she found herself hammering against the wooden door and shouting angrily at her son, something she hasn't done for years.

"HIKARU!" She hollered, "Open up right now!"

When there was still no answer, Mitsuko tried the door, feeling only slightly guilty for barging in. That was when she found out that the door could not be opened.

Five minutes later, Mitsuko, fearful and panicked, was running back to her house with her neighbour, Kudou-san, following close behind. Having tried to knock down Hikaru's door but failing miserably, she had sought for help and returned with somebody thankfully larger and stronger than she was. Together, they brought the stubborn door down with a crash.

Thick smoke instantly rushed gushed out from the doorway, choking the two of them and stinging their eyes. Coughing and panting, they tried to fan the grey smog away with their hands, looking for the source despite the blurred visions.

A scream could be heard throughout the Shindou household and Mitsuko fell to the floor in a dead faint.

* * *

So...how was that? Like it? Hate it?

Please, please review! :D


	2. Virtual Paradise

Sorry for the really late update, guys! Once school starts, you get drowned in the homework and tests and exams right away! (help, can't breathe!) Thanks for everyone who reviewed though! On with the story!

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Disclaimer: I don't own Hikago. *cries in utter disappointment*

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Chapter 2 - Virtual Paradise

_This was…heaven._

_Wow._

Hikaru has never imagined it to be this way, but somehow it feels just right.

There was no sun in the sky, but the place beamed with a soft golden glow so warm and amiable that Hikaru could feel his frozen heart melt as its soft touch seemed to entwine around him, hugging him close. It was nice to be finally free from the ice and frost that had once taken his soul prisoner. Here, amid the warmth and brilliance, he felt more like himself, rid of the chains and binds that bore him down.

He decided that he had really needed a hug.

Hikaru found himself standing on grassland, encircled by a ring of dandelions. It was exactly how he would describe how he felt at that moment – light, young and carefree, ready to take on everything.

He took a deep breath.

He smiled.

He laughed. His voice was carried off by the wind.

"I…I'm actually happy…" He was filled was amazement, and the words felt strange on his lips.

For one frightening moment it occurred to him that the emotion felt completely alien, but the thought was instantly dismissed when an arc of brilliant colours shimmered to existence right in front of his eyes.

The sky was a radiant blue, lively and cool, not a cloud in sight. Hikaru grinned. For once he could finally come to a halt and find the heart to admire the loveliness Kami-sama has given mankind.

Then something moving, fluttering, danced through the air across his sight, and without hesitation Hikaru followed the tiny butterfly as it waltzed over the green meadows, delicate wings flickering in elegant lilacs and jet blacks.

The butterfly sped up, and Hikaru stumbled to keep up, willows, pines and maples shooting past him in his effort to keep the beautiful creature within his sight. It was going faster and faster, covering yards in seconds, while the boy was struggling to maintain the distance between them. Hikaru was panting, gasping for breath, but he never allowed himself to fall more than a few feet behind it, because it reminded Hikaru of _him, _and there was no way he was going to let go so easily this time.

In the end, Hikaru did lose sight of purple butterfly, and there was a pang of guilt like a baseball bat to his head. However, this time, there was a limit to the pain he felt, perhaps due to the presence of the comforting glow around him, and the soothing knowledge that he knew he would always find _him_ here.

He looked back and saw that he was hills from where he started. He saw the greens that extended to the edges of the horizon, and that the grass was fresh and wet. So off came his shoes and socks, as Hikaru let his skin embrace the prickly, moist sensation of grass and let his toes dig into the smooth, squishy mud.

The realization hit him hard and quick like a bullet, but was as welcoming as feathers on skin.

He could _feel_.

He was conscious of the mushy ground, aware of the breezy wind, awake to the warming radiance…

Hikaru's head snapped up, for hidden behind the song of sparrows and the hum of the breeze, was the melody of a flute. It was, Hikaru could tell, a tune that spoke of loss, denial, despair and acceptance.

Acceptance…that was the one thing he has never been able to achieve.

His feet shuffled forwards towards the music, and his mind unconsciously followed. He stopped when he reached a river, too wide to swim across, too deep to stand in.

The waters were neither wild nor calm, flowing steadily from the top of a snowy mountain far in the distance. Its shimmery surface reflected the sky, the rainbow, the greenery…

When Hikaru looked into the river, he could no longer see the grey mist that once clouded his emerald eyes.

The song of the flute grew louder, and Hikaru closed his eyes and permitted himself to be indulged and enchanted by the magic of the clear notes, swinging to the rhythm…

Shock!

Anguish!

And…peace.

…When the song finally drew to an end with a single long note, Hikaru enjoyed a few more moments of silence before opening his eyes.

And there, standing on the far left on other shore with the ruby flute still pressed against his lips, was a figure in a tall black hat and white ancient Japanese clothing, long dark hair flying in the wind.

"S-sai!" Hikaru cried, except that his voice was cracked and strained and any sound that had managed to escape his throat was immediately swallowed up by the wind.

"Sai!" he attempted once more, waving his arms frantically in endeavor to catch the ghost's attention, relieved that his voice was working again. "SAI! SAI!"

And Hikaru was running and running, along the bank of the river which separated him from Sai, the huge distance between one shore and the other being the only thing that stopped him from throwing himself into the river and fighting against the current to his friend. He willed to Kami-sama for a way over the icy waters with his eyes shut in prayer, but all while running and stumbling over his feet, still screaming the name.

And Hikaru saw that his plea was answered, and there was a plain wooden bridge that extended over the water, his curve of hope. And his insides became an inexplicable blend of emotions, most of which he could not indentify. And he saw that his mentor's violet eyes had looked up from his flute, and the expression on his pale, slim face had turned from content serenity into utter shock. And Hikaru was ignoring his protesting leg muscles, his chest aching with happiness as he saw that Sai, too, was running towards the bridge, the place where they would meet, where Hikaru would tell the ghost that he was so terribly sorry.

"SAI!" The wood creaked under his foot as he finally reached the link of the two coasts, but Hikaru cared not. Sai, taller and with a larger stride, had beaten him to the bridge and was already running, running towards him, the distance between them was becoming smaller and smaller…

…and Sai would pull Hikaru into a close embrace…

…and he would wipe away Hikaru's tears…

…and Hikaru would apologize to Sai over and over again for chasing him away…

…and Sai would forgive him, and bring him to his new home…

…and they would play go together, forever and ever…

Hikaru's legs were moving fast, hammering on the wooden planks beneath his feet. He was bursting with excitement, screaming for Sai for the first time without being drowned in grief and remorse.

Sai was racing against the wind, too, despite his heavy traditional robes. His long white sleeves whipping behind him, he ran as if his life depended on it, all dignity of a Heian noble gone in his haste.

Then, at the top point of the arc, right in the center of the bridge, Sai stopped. He made no more movement to approach Hikaru, simply standing there, a dark silhouette in the light. Yet Sai's eyes, those kind, compassionate eyes remained in alarm, and Hikaru saw with much bemusement as he drew nearer to the ghost, that within those purple orbs something cracked and shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Sai…" Pushing his confusion away, Hikaru finally came to a stop in front of his long lost friend, unable to find words to express the joy he felt. Sai looked exactly how he was when he left – waist-length hair, long slender hands holding the too familiar-looking folding fan, stainless white robes that went well with the tall purplish hat.

But something was different. There was something about Sai's features that nudged at Hikaru. The boy realized, with a start, that there was no longer the childish desire to play go nor the bright burning passion to achieve the Hand of God that once etched on Sai's face.

"Sai –"

"Hikaru," Sai interrupted, his soothing voice now stressed and hard. "Why are you here?"

_Why are you here?_

An unknown force hit his chest with a bang. Stung, Hikaru felt his body cringe, eyes going wide. "Why am I here…?" he repeated hoarsely, shaking his head, not understanding. He had expected Sai to welcome him, to be glad to see him, and…just not this. He cleared his throat. "Why…I – I came after you, of course."

The brilliant rainbow that bended over the meadows faded away.

Sai's eyes, if possible, went even larger than Hikaru's. "You – you came after – does that mean –"

"Sai!" Hikaru cut in urgently. This wasn't going the way he had planned at all! "That doesn't matter! I'm here, aren't I? We can play forever now that there's no one to stop us, right?"

There was a new feeling in his heart, something that made his veins freeze. A twinge of fear, perhaps? The disbelief on his mentor's face had not left, but it was masked by something else – something faint but definitely there – a veil of anger.

He swallowed uncomfortably when he was only answered with silence and a stony glare.

The golden glow that filled the place disappeared, carrying off most of the warmth. The dazzling blue of the sky turned a darker shade of purple.

"Sai," Hikaru whispered weakly, a silent plea, "didn't…didn't you want to see me again?"

The purple darkened into grey.

The ghost's features softened to a certain degree, but remained stiff. "Of course I did, Hikaru," Sai said quietly, "I missed you very much."

The boy breathed a sigh of relief. "Then it's alright then! We can –"

"No, Hikaru," Sai's voice was pained and throaty, "it's not alright at all."

Somewhere in the distance, lightning started to flash.

Hikaru's hands, previously clenched and half-raised, dropped limply to his sides.

"Your time hasn't come yet. You shouldn't have – "

"I know that!" Hikaru snapped, frustration starting to bubble inside his head like a kettle of slowly boiling water. Why couldn't Sai understand? Why? "But this is what I chose, isn't it? It's my life, my decision." And Hikaru's own words triggered a memory of how, once, three years ago, he had stumbled across the blood-stained goban in his grandfather's attic, came upon a ghost from the Heian period, and declared how he would not let the spirit mess up his life, because it was_ his_, and _his_ alone.

There was it again, his selfishness that drove Sai away.

It _hurt_.

Thunder started to roar.

"I – I had to come after y-you." A stinging wrench in his chest told him that his voice wasn't the only thing that was breaking. "I – I had t-to tell you, th-that I'm s-sorry…"

Tears started to fall, and Hikaru was trembling, shaking uncontrollably, his insides withering in sorrow and exploding in grief. His teeth were clattering, though not from the cold. He tasted the saltiness on his tongue as trails of wetness rolled down his cheeks. "I'm s-sorry I chased y-you away…" he sobbed, letting his bangs hide his face, desperate to hide how pathetic he must look. "I – I was s-selfish – I only c-cared about m-myself –"

Rain started to pour.

"Hikaru…" The boy looked up, glassy eyes still curtained behind his soaked hair. Sai's eyes were wet, so terribly aggrieved, and it felt so wrong that Sai was shedding tears over something that was not related to Go. "Please, Hikaru, please don't cry…"

"You left!" Hikaru screamed, his tone almost accusing, and more tears streamed down, blinding him, engulfing him. "You – you didn't c-come back! You left m-me! You – you –"

He was freezing from the rain, now that he could feel again. He shivered, gripping his arms around himself to trap heat, and he was aware of just how much he missed Sai's cuddles.

When he lost a match, or when he had another one of those rows with his dad, Sai was always there to offer a hug. The spirit would hold him close, yelling too cheerfully into his ear, telling him it's alright. Hikaru would push him away, insisting that it was girly and babyish to hug, and that he was going to go deaf anytime soon. Sai would pretend to pout, but respect Hikaru's protest and let go.

And Hikaru, though having a serious objection to the ghost's hugs of death, has always been comforted to know that there was actually someone who cared, who comprehended.

It was too much.

It _hurt_, it _hurt_, it HURT!

Hikaru needed the comfort, the reassurance. But the ghost, just a foot's length apart, was merely standing there, making no action, no effort to pull the hurting boy into calming embrace.

When…? When had Sai gotten so cold, so distant?

He choked, trying in vain to stopper his tears. There wasn't supposed to be sadness or misery in heaven, was there? It should be a place of happiness, of bliss and contentment. How has everything gone so wrong?

_At least_, he told himself, _at least I'm dead now. I can stay beside Sai forever and we'll play millions of games. I'll be able to actually meet Torajirou. Sai might not like the fact that I had killed myself, but he'll be forced to accept it, and once we play Go, everything will fine again._

"Hikaru," the name came out as a whimper behind the veil of dampness. "It's…it's not your fault that I left."

Hikaru shook his head fiercely, swallowing the bitterness that tasted sour in his throat. "I… Sai, I –" , He reached out towards his old friend, frantic to find consolation that he was so sure he could obtain from the sensation of the soft fabric of his friend's robes, to make sure that Sai was really there, and that the person in front of him was not just a figment of his imagination.

Only to stop when his hand hit a smooth, icy surface where there should be nothing but air.

"Wha – what?"

Horrified, Hikaru withdrew his hand as if burned. He gazed at the void in front of him in disbelief and fright.

The sudden intensification of woe that radiated from the ghost did not go unnoticed.

"Sai -?" Hikaru gasped, appalled.

The spirit only stared back at him with those sad, haunting eyes.

Hikaru extended his quivering hand once more, a cramp of dread spreading in his stomach.

For a second time, his fingertips touched something unmistakably cold, solid and unseen to the eye.

_There was an invisible glass wall right in the middle of the bridge, right between him and Sai._

And realization dawned on him as he finally understood why Sai stopped running towards Hikaru, why he did not reach out to offer a soothing hug.

Sai _couldn't_.

It was raining heavier than ever.

A strangled noise managed to emerge from bottom of Hikaru's throat. "S-Sai –" he croaked, tears that he had managed to stem for a second no longer restrained. He let them fall freely, letting the shock sink in. He pressed his palms against the freezing surface of the unseen wall, feeling the iciness bite into his skin. The sensation was just as real the glass of a window of any house. "Why – why can't I –?"

"The dead and the living cannot mix," Sai whispered forlornly, his undertone penetrating a way through the thunder.

His soggy clothes dangled off him, weighing him down. "But - but I'm dead!" Hikaru protested.

"Your time hasn't come yet."

It was pouring so heavily that Hikaru could no longer make out the shape of his friend. He could not see, but only feel the stings of the raindrops hitting his head, his face, washing away tears before they could be shed.

He closed his eyes to keep the water out, and when he opened them again, he was lying on his back, trapped in a world of dead white and beeping machines.

* * *

Yes, Hikaru failed. Poor him.

And so...the place where he ended up in wasn't heaven after all...more of a world between the dead and living.

I did warn you about the angst, didn't I?

I think I'm gonna update the next chapter within the Christmas holidays. Who knows when I'll have time to finish the story when school starts again, huh?

Ja ne for now!


	3. Part 1 What he didn't want to know

Hi, I'm back! I couldn't make it by the end of the Christmas holiday, after all, but whatever.

For this chapter 3, I'm going to split it into two, just because it's too long. I tried planning out my chapters now, you see (like, writing down all the stuff that pops into your head and link it up later on), and by the way I'm putting everything down in the story, this chapter is going to be more than 5000 words long, and I am aware that some people don't like reading stuff with too many text on one page.

English is not my mother language, and I'm not really that good with grammar, so,yeah...sorry...

My friends say that I have a different writing style for each chapter of this story. I don't know, maybe...? That's for you to determine.

And I just realized that I forgot to add the line rulers between the change of scenes. Yeah, so I re-uploaded this chapter.

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Disclaimer: The usual. I don't own Hikago.

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Chapter 3a - What he didn't want to know

Akira was unaware of the implications of grief on a person until he witnessed it in action right before his very eyes.

He admitted that he was a lucky child, untouched by sorrow, unscathed by pain. His 'weirdness', the other kids would say – and they were probably referring to his uncommon obsession and his overly-formal behavior – was the reason he didn't have many peers his own age. Touya never allowed it bother him; he had never enjoyed interacting with loud, easily-excited teens with raging hormones and dangerous hobbies, anyway. He preferred to be alone, quiet, peaceful, with only the goban as company and the smooth, cold feeling that go stones give out sandwiched between his fingers…

…which was the reason why he had never known the true value and significance of friendship. This implied, of course, that he was, too, unscarred by betrayal, mystified by sacrifice, and a stranger to loss…

As the upshots of woe unfolded in front of him, Akira could have sworn that something dark, evil, and very, very wrong was swopping about the room, like an eagle upon its prey.

* * *

Akira received the call almost immediately after his game against Kurata 6-dan, one of which he had regrettably lost by a mere one-and-a-half moku.

He left the Go Institute with resentment and disappointment like a thundercloud over his head. The frustration, he noted, was not unlike the time when Shindou failed to attend his official games.

The most disturbing fact was that he had been leading by quite a margin, before he had most foolishly let himself to be distracted. If only he had been more focused, if only his attention had not diverted, he would most certainly not have misread the upper corner during yose, thus preventing the terminal slip-up from happening at all. It was most unfortunate that his potential blunder chose to reveal itself in the end game, when there were no longer any opportunities to make up for his fatal mistake.

It wasn't as though Akira had expected a win against Kurata-san the first place, of course. His opponent was one of the rising stars of the Go world, blessed with talent and sharp instincts, not to mention having much more experience with being a pro. Akira had been surprised to find himself leading comfortably after an exchange that led from the ko battle; he was determined not to fall back again, but staying ahead was like getting blood out of a stone.

Still, he could have won. And he just had to go and let his mind wander off…!

_Damn it!_

He tried to dismiss his upsetting thoughts, but a nagging feeling continued to bug Akira, for it was plain unreasonable (he subsequently mused) that he could ever tolerate a distraction on his part when a game was in process. He was normally composed and well- known for his profound concentration, contemplating wholly and only on the game until it ended. He had never permitted his thoughts the veer off-course during a battle of Go, but that was, of course, with Shindou Hikaru as the exception.

Shindou was nowhere in sight, so he could hardly be the excuse for his loss. Akira chose the blame it on the weird noises and movements that Kurata was making instead.

However, Akira could not find the reason why he was constantly feeling a tingling sense at the back of his neck from the moment he sat down before the goban, nor could he cause of the lump in his throat when he was feeling perfectly carefree during his game.

He could feel this big chunk, hard as rock and cold as ice, swelling within his chest as he moved from the opening moves the heart of the game. He had learned to ignore it; his main precedence was the game. But as the goban gradually started to fill, it became harder to disregard the growing discomfort.

Ultimately, it had led him to overlook an attachment he had been warning himself for so long about, cost him four stones thus giving away more than ten moku to the opponent.

Akira cursed under his breath again, disgusted with himself. He tried to shove it to the back of his head, to forget it, convincing himself that it was just a bad day.

He had no idea how correct he was.

* * *

"Hello? Is this Touya-kun?"

Akira had been expecting his father, or perhaps Ogata-san or even Ichikawa-san, but it was a gentle, mature male voice on the other line. Very much like Ashiwara's, but only calmer, quieter, and with less enthusiasm. Akira had heard it before, sometime, somewhere…

"This is Isumi Shinichiro."

Ah.

Him.

"Hello, Isumi-san." Akira replied as politely as he could without letting the sourness of his terrible mood seep into his words. To be honest, he did not feel like talking to anyone right now. He wanted nothing more than to lock himself into his room the very minute and mourn over his previous game in peace. However, Isumi-san was one of the few people of his generation who were ever nice to him, who didn't purposely ignore or glare at him whenever he was in sight, and the least Akira could do was to show the respect which Isumi-san most certainly deserved.

"I hope I'm not intruding, Touya-kun."

Akira was beginning to understand why everybody liked Isumi. He was sensitive, considerate and tactful, a variation from the conceited young pros Akira came across almost every day. It was true that Isumi-san was probably weaker than he was in terms of Go skill, but a new found admiration to the older pro had presented itself before Akira, and for the first time in his life, the feeling of esteem was not related to Go.

"It's alright," Akira replied. He suddenly recalled something about Isumi-san that Amano-sensei had brought up the day before. "I didn't know you had come back from China."

"I returned yesterday," was the swift reply, and when Isumi spoke again, his voice was hushed and troubled. "I think you should come over to the Tokyo Hospital right now."

Dread and perplexity gripped him once the surprise from the unexpected request wore off. His grasp on his phone tightened. "Why?" Akira blurted out before he could stop himself, wincing at the sharpness of his voice. "Is my father – he's not – is he?"

He could still remember the last time his father had a heart attack. It wasn't a pleasant few hours.

"No, it's not Touya-sensei."

Akira let out a silent sigh of relief he had not realized he was holding.

There was a pause, a hesitation, as if Isumi was wondering how he should put his message in words. Akira waited.

"Shindou-kun has been hospitalized."

* * *

Akira's first reaction was "WHAAAAT?" – A sound that he had never dreamt of making ever since the day he learned the weight of silence.

He reached his destination fifteen minutes after hanging up on Isumi in his incredulity and bewilderment. He hoped the other boy (Or young man, to be precise, since Isumi-san was already twenty years old) would understand and not to take offence; it had been incredibly uncouth of him, and he wished it would never happen again.

Yet, issues concerning Shindou Hikaru could be quite unpredictable.

Akira did not like hospitals. Heck, he even had trouble stopping himself from fidgeting in his school's infirmary. The smell that wafted from room to room spooked him. The hospital always stunk of despondency, despair and death. Only half a year ago he had been here with his mother, restless outside the surgery room, praying for the best.

Akira was in a daze when he inquired for the number of Shindou's sickroom from the nurse at the counter, only half-registering what the lady had said as he lurched tiredly to the lifts, the digits 505 being the only thing he processed from her rapid talking. Akira's knees felt weak and wobbly; perhaps that he just couldn't seem to let it sink in that Shindou, his one and only eternal rival (yes, he has acknowledged Shindou to be his rival now, however much he persuaded himself not to and regardless of him he still denying it when asked) had just tried to commit suicide.

He was considerably aware of the other blazing emotion that he could hardly stomach apart from his palpable mystification. To say that he was furious with Shindou would be an understatement. He found himself unable to put up with the boy's selfishness for his own personal desires (even if it all Shindou wanted to do was to kill himself); he could not bear Shindou's self-centeredness, shocked by his harsh neglect for his friends and family, especially his parents.

Akira would wait until Shindou awoke.

They needed a _talk_.

When Akira arrived at Shindou's door, he was instantly pulled into a warm embrace by a woman he has never known all his life. His instincts that had started screaming at him to escape anything that tried to launch itself at him ceased to a halt the moment Akira felt the woman shaking terribly against him. Hardly recovering from his second shock of the day, Akira patted the woman awkwardly on the shoulder, whom he had by now deduced to be Shindou's mother.

"Thank you for coming, Touya-san," Shindou-san was saying, eyes red and face blotchy, and Akira was too stunned by the fact that she knew his name to reply. He merely nodded, muttering something sympathetic under his breath that even he himself couldn't make out.

When Shindou-san finally let go of Akira he turned his gaze away from the traumatized mother and took a good look at the only bed in the room.

And gasped.

His prior rage at Shindou drained out of him like water from an unplugged sink. He noted, with horror, that he would not have recognized the boy under the oxygen mask if he had not been sure who it was beforehand. Shindou was a wreck, his figure wasted, his skin taken on an unhealthy pallor with occasion shades of bluish-purple, signifying a lack of oxygen in the body. Beneath the plastic mask that was connected to the oxygen tent, Shindou's lips were a tint of pale grey, drained of blood.

Akira thought of the boy who had pursed his Go with passion and love for the game, glanced at comatose form on the hospital bed, and failed to resist a shudder. He tried not to think about what Shindou had done to himself.

Yet despite the sickly appearance, Shindou's hair was still well-combed as always, his bangs parted neatly to the sides. (Akira reasoned Shindou-san to be an orderly and organized person.) There was something peaceful about how his rival's eyes were closed, as if he was simply asleep on a normal night after an eventful day, having a sweet, peaceable dream.

Shindou did not look like a person in grief. He did not look like somebody who would kill himself at all.

Akira's superb brainpower betrayed him for the first time ever since he failed to ace his Math test by half a mark back when he was six. He could not think.

A tap on the shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned to find himself facing the impassive, vexed face of Isumi's, who was gesturing outside the room where Akira could see a messy head a brown hair and a familiar frown that belonged to no one else but He-who-hated-his-guts.

Akira inwardly groaned – did his day just got worse?

He tried to make up some sort of excuse, racking his brains for a reasonable pretext – anything to stay away from the glowering boy outside the room. Akira was about to say how it wasn't appropriate to leave Shindou-san all alone with her son when he noticed that someone else had taken his place (not that he was too annoyed about it. He hadn't done much of a job of comforting Shindou-san, since he had never been an expert on handling unstable feelings). A girl in pigtails – a brunette about his age – had buried her head in Shindou-san's shoulder, silent tears glistening on her young, pretty face. Akira could not recall Shindou ever having a sister, but the mother was holding the girl with such affection it was as if she was her child.

Akira trudged out after Isumi, physically sensing the sizzling discomfiture in the atmosphere tense as he drew closer to the person who disliked, detested, loathed, and despised him.

Also known as the jealous brat called –

"_Well_?" demanded Waya, spitting into Akira's face, once the door was firmly shut. Behind him, Akira could see that Isumi was giving Waya disapproving glances, which the latter deliberately ignored.

"Well what?" Akira raised his eyebrows, genuinely puzzled.

"What did you do?"

"Do what?"

Waya flared up, eyes popping out in rage. "Are you trying to joke with me or something?" He grabbed Akira by the collar, shaking him. "Quit acting stupid! Shindou. What did you do to him?"

In the background, Isumi was trying distraughtly to break the two of them apart. Comprehension dawned on Akira, and he wrested his way out of Waya's grasp, taking an involuntary weak gasp for breath. "You think _I_ made Shindou kill himself?" he asked disbelievingly, straightening his collar.

Isumi's loud "No!" was drowned out by Waya's even louder "DUH!", which earned the three of them dirty looks from passing visitors and nurses in the corridor. Akira flushed with embarrassment, but did not back down from the argument.

"You think – you think – that's outrageous! How could I have made Shindou –"

"I don't know, do I?" Waya snapped, eying Akira with distaste. "Shindou was a good kid. Ignorant, stubborn and extremely thick, but always _happy_. He would never do something like this!"

Akira returned a cold glare. "And that makes me the reason Shindou would hurt himself – _why_?"

"Shindou was weird about you," Waya seethed, words stressed and coming out in a hiss. By now, Isumi had stopped attempting to keep the two of them from each other's throats and had collapsed into a nearby chair instead. "We had to stop him from skipping his meals when he spent even the lunch hours studying kifu, back when we were insei. All he cared was your stupid rivalry," and here, Waya spat the word 'rivalry' like it offended him, "and how he needed to improve quickly in order to catch up to you. It wasn't until he passed out in one of the afternoon games when he agreed to order takeout during lunchtime."

"That doesn't mean anything!" Akira cried, defensive and indignant. In spite of his tone, though, Akira felt chilled to the bone. If Shindou valued their rivalry over his health, then…?

"Of course it doesn't," Isumi cut in evenly, before Waya could continue his tirade. "Shindou must have suffered some kind of ordeal so painful or encountered a problem which he thought unsolvable to execute such an action."

"What kind of problems can a Go player encounter except something that relates to Go?" Waya countered aggressively, then spun fiercely to Akira. "What else is there apart from his crazy obsession to make you accept his skill?"

"Waya, that's enough." Isumi said sternly, and Waya obediently shut up, though his death glare remained intact. "I'm sure Touya-kun has nothing to do with this."

The brown-haired pro made a noise of aggravation and looked away. Akira bit his lip, for Waya's words had planted a seed of guilt that seemed to grow with each passing second. Although he had long-accepted Shindou's Go, Waya's narrative about Shindou impelling himself to his limits to the extent when priorities were mixed up lingered sore and perishing in his head.

Akira doubted that he had ever felt so bad in his life.

* * *

Okay. Some of you are going to say that Waya is being very unreasonable and a brat for being angry at Akira when he's got no proof and all that. Perhaps he is, but Hikaru IS one of his best Go buddies. And he never really liked Akira anyway. (Don't get me wrong, I like both Waya and Akira. I like that entire Hikago cast, really, maybe except Mashiba and the 7-dan guy who tried to sell fake gobans. I never remembered his name.)

There's a lot of thinking and talking in this chapter. I know. Sorry about that. I promise that they'll be more action in chapter 3b.


	4. Part 2 Atari

Disclaimer: I don't own Hikago.

* * *

**Chapter 3b - Atari**

For a while, nobody spoke. Stillness suspended in mid-air like smoke in a heavily-polluted city, thick, atrocious and choking.

"So, did the doctors say anything about Shindou's condition?" It wasn't like Akira to be the first the break the silence, but the unease was killing him. Waya was still gritty to have his obstinate back on him, so it was to Isumi he turned expectantly to. "Did they say when he will wake up?"

"It is most fortunate that they found him before it was too late," Isumi replied, and Akira detected the underlying quiver in his low, reassuring voice. "They managed to hook him up to some hyperbaric oxygen in time. Another half-hour…" His mien wavered and flicked, a murky shadow sweeping over his expression. "Anyway, Shindou should be alright, even if there's no telling when he will wake up."

All Akira could do was blink a few times to show that he understood. His vocal cord felt as if it was stretched excruciatingly tight.

Through the glass window, Shindou-san and the pig-tailed girl had fallen asleep, clinging onto each other as if their lives depended on it. Out of the blue, Akira recognized the brunette to be the student in the Go club he asked for directions the day he went to Haze Junior High in search of Shindou. Perhaps without the jolt of seeing his destined rival by the edge of death he was able to summon up the original source of the familiar face. What her name was, however, he could not bring to remembrance.

_But they must be close_, Akira inferred. _Shindou's mother knows her well. They might have been childhood friends._ But Akira has never heard Shindou ever mention the girl before…

The very idea retriggered the time bomb inside Akira. It took him all the self-restraint he had to stopper his impassioned desire to grab Shindou by the neck and shake.

_There are people who care, Shindou! _Akira wanted to tear off the non- rebreather mask and bawl right into the boy's face. _There are people who are hurt by your stupid, spoiled antics, even if you've left them in the dust in your long ago in your dream to achieve the Kami no Itte!_

But even if he did, Shindou would not be able to hear him.

* * *

"_Shit…!"_

It was uttered in a whisper, but the distinct sorrow behind was so deafening that Akira jumped at the sound it. He was not the only one who noticed, for Isumi had, too, looked up from his shoe laces and turned his attention towards Waya, for once without the air of disapproval even if the young pro could have used a more appropriate word in expressing himself.

"He did it…when his mom was in the house," Waya's eyes were bloodshot and dry, as if they had just survived from a desert sandstorm. He was addressing himself more than anyone else, choking out every syllable with exertion as though each were a sharp jolt to his ribs. "As if he was sure…so sure…that even though his mom was there, she wouldn't go to check on him…wouldn't bother…"

"It's not like that!" Akira protested, not wanting Shindou-san to be spoken ill of; the woman has suffered enough already.

"Then what?" Waya retorted shortly, holding a fiery gaze. "Shindou…his mother was just downstairs, ten seconds away. And he dared, he dared do it right under his poor mother's nose, because he knew she wouldn't…he trusted her not to nose around his room until h-he…he…!"

"…"

The boy broke off, sputtering to a stop, and Akira was relieved, because he was certain that he could hear no more.

Tuning out Isumi's supposedly-uplifting efforts to convince him and Waya that Shindou would be absolutely fine, Akira came to a standstill from his endless race and glimpsed back at his own relationship with his parents. His reserved character had caused a shroud of formality and stiffness to befall between him and his mother, but with his father, who shared his spirit and soul in Go…he was glad that they were considerably intimate.

Akira took in a sudden intake of breath. A wave of tremor surged through him and drenched him from head to toe; he could not imagine why he hadn't observed it earlier.

Shindou's father was nowhere to be seen.

_Why wasn't he here, sweating in anxiety, waiting for his son to awake? Why was Shindou's classmate the one offering Shindou-san the comforting shoulder instead? Why –?_

On second thought, he would rather his questions be responded by naught. He was irresolute as to which unnerved him more: the answer, or the lack of an answer.

Momentarily distracted, Akira failed to recognize his own ringtone until people started shooting him riled glances and Isumi gave him a small nudge in the elbow. Mortified, Akira excused himself and fumbled for his cell phone, turning a deaf ear to Waya's uncivil, noisy snort.

"Kuroko-san!"

The series of events that since Isumi's call that morning had whizzed by so quickly that Akira hadn't had the chance to come up for air. Only now hearing the grunting yet admiring voice of old man Kuroko, one of the frequent customers at the Meijin's Go salon, Akira understood that time continues to flow even if the clock has broken down. In the blur of everything, the long-scheduled appointment with some of his father's friends for a few rounds of shidougo had managed to slip his mind. It was to his sheer horror that he found that he was running more than half an hour late.

If the Meijin ever knew about this, Akira was positive that he would be obliged to endure a tedious, longwinded lecture on the magnitude of punctuality.

"Touya-sensei? Are you feeling alright?"

_Was it that obvious?_ "Of course."

"You don't have to come if don't feel like it, sensei."

Kuroko must have misinterpreted his upset for his loss to Kurata 6-dan. Nonetheless, Akira found no reason to correct him; a defeat, while generally most distressing and being able to put him off food for hours, had lost its substance and significance here. He thought of going along with the man's suggestion, for it was the perfect excuse, really, to ask for discharge with the desire of personal space after a dreadful match as the reason.

"No, like I said, I'm alright. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.

But then again, Akira needed to get out of the hospital, like, _right now_.

After a stream of sincere apologies and hasty, made-up explanations, he pocketed his phone once more, returning to the other two Go players.

"I have to go," he muttered, but Isumi and Waya, both weary and submerged in their own dismay, said nothing.

Akira gave them each a brief jerk of the head, a gesture of leave-taking more out of habit than politeness. He did not feel at all offended even if they were unreturned.

Already halfway to the elevators, he made the mistake of hesitating, of looking back.

Shindou's lifeless figure upon the creaky, metal bed unearthed the stiff, aching bump crushing against his breastbone – _the very one he felt during his game with Kurata. _Recognition sized him like a frosty, clawed hand upon his stomach; the undigested contents gurgled and Akira had to choke back the urge to throw up.

He had never thought it could hurt to possess unerring instincts until then. Akira forced himself to gulp down the appalling acid taste on his tongue.

"Oh, and, Isumi-san?" He called down the corridor.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I hung up on you today."

The edges of the lips of the older boy gave a quick quirk – a perceptive smile – and with that Akira turned on his heels ascended from the white, air-conditioned hell, the mocking cackle of the hovering, preying Shinigami blending with the echo of his leather shoes against the cold marble floor.

* * *

"You look upset, Akira-kun."

He had excused himself and retired from the game after vain tries to retrieve himself from outer space – at least, that was where he assumed he was. Akira could not imagine any other place where distressing ideas and rapidly flashing images orbited each other in an endless abyss festooned with dizzying specks of light.

When he nearly dozed off for the fourth time in his game with Shuwara-san, the elder man had courteously proposed to stop and advised in a fatherly manner that Akira took a rest instead. Akira had assented immediately, expressing regret for the inconvenienced caused before clearing up the stones and trotting off to the fish-tank corner to wash his brain out, because he really needed it.

The ancient, more-experienced players in the Go salon knew better than to interrupt Akira's train of thoughts, especially when he was wearing that solemn, humorless game face while mesmerized by red and silver goldfish that was spitting out stones at the bottom of the tank, but Ichikawa was none of these people. She walked right up to him with a tray of hot chocolate and homemade truffles, and without asking whether he desired her presence, she squatted down next to him and stated honestly her observation of him that bothered her so much.

Akira flashed her a false smile, uttered a sorry, and shut her out.

While she rambled away to a one-sided banter about the Children's Go Tournament to be held the following Tuesday in attempt to raise his spirits, Akira wondered why his famous, ever-effective unruffled façade failed to delude Ichikawa-san and everyone else.

Or maybe it was just the astonishing fact that the great Touya Akira had just dumped Go to look at fish.

"I thought you were going to invite Shindou-kun here today, Akira-kun."

He wished that the she hadn't changed the subject. He had been voicing his agreement occasionally without paying the slightest bit of attention to Ichikawa's pointless chatter, which was deaf to anyone but herself, while wandering further and further away from any champion from some amateur round robin or the threat that he might be a challenge. The mention of his rival's name had taken hold of Akira's collar and dragged him back to the seat next to Ichikawa-san. Now that she had articulated straight at him, it was unavoidable that he gave an answer.

He's not coming, Akira told the curious Ichikawa exhaustedly.

The young lady raised her eyebrows, tilting her head. "Did you ask even him?"

_I was going to, right after my match. _"I didn't have the chance."

"You can call him now to in case you don't see him at the institute tomorrow."

Akira felt like a sprinter in the middle of a marathon race; he lacked the strength to explain. "He's not available at this moment."

He wanted, required to be alone, so he stood up before the other could say anything else, mumbled a goodbye, and left without the sweet, rich aroma of chocolate and honey in his wake.

* * *

It was eight-thirty when Akira left the Go salon and returned to the busy streets of Tokyo.

Time had elapsed with such pace it was as though night fell a few yards with each move of a game. He emerged from the building to find himself in the familiar yet infuriating rushing of people, the wrangle of horns, the stench of smoke, and the speeding of cars…a world so unlike the serene nature of Go that he subconsciously recoiled in aversion, if not physically.

An ear-piercing screech caused him to jerk his head violently to its direction in reflex, almost giving himself a whiplash as a sickening click of the bones was heard. After a moment, he decided that it was worth it, because he was sure that the resulting consequences would be a great deal worse than a painful twist in the neck had not he jumped out of the way in time as a lorry came crashing down the road, hooting the sound of an out-of-tune trumpet plugged into a electric sound magnifier.

He watched the back of the truck zoom downtown with his chest clutched and wheezing, hair stuck to his flushed cheeks in sweat. He was partially sentient towards the loud mutterings around him and high-pitched crying of one terrified little girl. He caught a trickle of the truck diver's river of cuss words, and shivered with the idea of how close he had been to the icy, talon-fingered grip of death.

Death…

_Death…_

Akira's jaw tightened. Only fifteen years being part of the civilized Touya household and more than a decade of education and Go refrained him from repeating the colourful language that just spilled out of the driver's mouth.

_Shindou…!_

He could swear that it was not only figuratively that a long streak of light crash down from the sky and illuminated his shadow-hidden features in a raucous roar for one blinding millisecond. He would, if given the chance, punch Shindou bloody, skin him alive, rip his guts out, and throw him into the sea and leave him to drown, anything to unleash the steaming frustration and poaching anger simmering in low heat since the day _he_ crossed his path.

Not that it would help Shindou's condition anyhow.

Akira's own sadistic impulse caught himself unawares, wondering where the violence had come from and how he had managed to be thinking along the same lines of some lunatic, thuggish mass murderer in Detective Conan.

And he, like any other normal human being, blamed his irregularity on anyone but himself.

_Shindou, you injudicious, ludicrous, insensible, dim-witted, brainless idiot!_

* * *

The ache in his chest had grown old, but not the least bit less disturbing.

Akira stopped by the entrance of the hospital cafeteria, deserted except for two white-robed doctors and a familiar outline of Shindou-san's fatigued figure, hunched over a half-eaten plate of spaghetti with no intention of finishing it. Akira pursed his lips into a thin line, thinking, then maneuvered vigilantly up to her, watching her cautiously, peculiarly.

"Shindou-san," he greeted, tuning down his voice in order not to startle the woman, who seemed to be in a miserable haze.

She turned at the sound of his voice, stupefied, before taking in the face before her and gave a wide, empty smile that seemed to exhaust all vigor from her.

"Hello, Touya-kun!" Both flinched at the forced cheeriness accentuated on Akira's name. Shindou-san's cheeks turned a tint of pink in embarrassment, averting her gaze from the boy's sharper, cooler eyes. She looked pointedly down at her pasta and meatballs. "Thank you for coming today."

Akira shook his head. "I wanted to compensate for not saying goodbye before I left this afternoon." It had seemed wrong; his conscience agitated him the entire evening.

"It's nothing, dear," Shindou-san beamed warmly, an expression which contrasted greatly with the waver in her eyes. "Hikaru would be so pleased that you came to visit him."

Akira saw in her round, grey eyes the shattered image of a once vigorous, dynamic teenage boy with bright golden bangs and decided against telling her that when a person strived to end their own existence, they would not be pleased by anything that marked their failure, even if it meant finally catching up to his rival making him look in his direction with earnest recognition, acknowledgement.

Akira surveyed her pale, wrecked demeanor and decided that she looked worst than she had when he last saw her. "How…how is Shindou...-kun now?"

He could hear the mother's appreciative indebtedness in her weak whisper. "He's still sleeping," she said, sounding so broken that Akira wished he could somehow take away the heavy, harrowing trial from her overburdened shoulders. "Sleeping" was the term she used; he could quite understand her tenacious denial that was still so raw, so tender to the heart.

He thought of Shindou-san, confused by the wounds, wounded by the unseen.

He thought of the brown-haired girl, who was no longer a part of Shindou's life, but him, still part of her own.

He thought of Waya and Isumi, how they were befuddled and clueless, angry and distraught.

He thought of himself, who wanted answers, explanations, or even excuses that he didn't need to hear.

He thought of Shindou, who willingly threw his life, his unbounded future away as if they were yesterday's newspaper.

And most of all Akira thought of the motivation that drove his rival to such drastic measures, the ultimate cause of the tragedy.

He couldn't think of any.

"I…I'm here to see Shindou…-kun. I want to talk to him."

Apart from her plastered smile, Shindou-san's expression was unreadable.

"He won't be able to hear you."

"I know. It's fine," Akira insisted. "I just want to talk to him."

Shindou-san cocked her head, as though seriously considering him. In the end, she nodded, slowly. "I'll be with you shortly," she said, waving a hand over her unfinished dinner, but both of them knew that it was because of her inability to remain inside _that room_ any longer.

He pictured her huddled by her unconscious son, watching helplessly as he held on at the edge of the cliff with all but ten scarred fingers scraping for whatever dirt that was slipping through them. He intuited her vulnerability, her fears, for he and his mother had experienced the very same when sat outside the surgery room, awaiting for the stark metal doors to open that signified the end of the operation, and a report of his father's situation which came closely behind.

He eyed the mother once more, who was making a tremendous struggle to bring a few more mouthfuls of the cold meal to her mouth all due to his continuous presence. He turned and left, leaving her to incinerate in grief and despair; he decided that he was more benign to leave her alone.

* * *

He was on the fifth floor again. The air in this atmosphere was startlingly tight, so badly ventilated that Akira had to pull at his collar and gasp heavily lest he suffocated. He failed to comprehend why the hospital staff had not acted to improve the air circulation; surely fresh air was much vital to patients both recovering and those on their last legs?

The choking, strangling ambiance of the bleak, white corridor considerably intensified with each passing second. He felt a strong ripple of dread as the air solidified around his neck; he was beginning to realize that whatever tribulation of breathing he was suffering from had nothing to do with the lack of open windows or ventilators.

He exploded into the room and almost knocked down the door. The bang as the back of door collided with the wall was thunderous enough to scandalize any lame person within the hospital to their feet. He staggered in his momentum, grabbing onto the doorknob to upright himself again. He looked up, breathing ragged and uneven due to his sudden burst of speed, and his panicky gaze settled on Shindou's gaping eyes, wide in terror and melancholy.

He found himself petrified as a hostage being held at gunpoint, or an explorer in the poles who had fallen into the water. His muscles refused their orders; as if fossilized, he was unable to move.

Still as stone, almost gaping, he saw Shindou's body tremble, frozen in his stance, his frightened expression mirroring Akira's own. They stared, unforeseen occurrences the reason they stood, both opened-mouthed, Akira half-bending by the door, and Shindou on the very same stool which his mother had occupied, his hands gripping tightly onto a ripped piece of the bed sheet tied around one of the water pipes on the ceiling…

Akira reacted with such speed and force that they both went crashing painfully backwards to the marble floor, but not before Shindou's head hit the bedrail with a horrible clang that filled the air of blaring metallic echoes. They landed in a painful heap on the ground with throbbing joints and excruciating muscles.

When Akira struggled back onto his knees, sore and aching all over, his rival was limp and unconscious next to him with a reddish, swelling mark on his forehead.

He staggered backwards, pole-axed and bewildered. He flinched inwardly as his pulse went wild and out of control, and dizziness took its place in his head.

Akira did the only thing he could think of – he screamed for help.

There came the clattering of shoes as nurses and doctors poured into the room. Akira watched as Shindou was examined and lifted gently back onto the bed, where the oxygen mask was once again pulled over his mouth and nose.

The people in long white robes continued to operate on Shindou in the midst of loud, razor-sharp beeps of the machines. In contrast, the shredded piece of white fabric contemptuous silence above their heads, slow, sardonic and jeering.

Akira turned away. Tears tracks that stained Shindou's drained-of-colour cheeks were hard to ignore.

* * *

TBC...


End file.
